


Another Angle

by methylviolet10b



Series: Camera Obscura [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: No idea where this is going, Prompt Fic, serial
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-26
Updated: 2012-07-26
Packaged: 2017-12-20 23:53:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 606
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/893378
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/methylviolet10b/pseuds/methylviolet10b
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He'd had a lot of experiences to compare this one with. All and all, he'd have rather passed on this one.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Another Angle

**Author's Note:**

> Written in response to the following prompt:
> 
> Prompt: pick up the closest book to hand. Open at random, and place your finger at random on the page. That word must be either the word you begin your story with or the word with which it ends.
> 
> I laughed for a good five minutes when I saw my word. I mean, what are the odds? The book is One Salt Sea by Seanan McGuire, and I used my word at the very end.

Over the course of his career, he'd been in five car collisions of varying severity, knocked over and trampled by a horse, bowled over by bicyclists on three separate occasions, involved in more scuffles than he could recall, worked over half-a-dozen times (four for undercover work), slipped a mickey once, shot once, stabbed twice, and had to deal with the press in full cry more times than he cared to remember.  
  
On the tortuous scale of things, Lestrade decided this hurt less than being shot or stabbed, but as things stood at the moment, had a higher chance of him winding up dead. He suspected it might hurt more than being shot (it had just been a graze) or beaten-up that one time that had involved a pipe and a glass bottle, if it weren't for whatever-the-hell he'd been drugged with that still had his thoughts sticking like old chewing-gum.  
  
No, there was no doubt about it. Being tasered by a masked maniac definitely ranked high on Lestrade's personal list of things he never wanted to have happen to him again. Right up there with regaining consciousness to find himself drugged, blindfolded, and cuffed to some kind of chair. He'd tried to work his wrists and ankles loose, but to no avail. He'd tried tipping over the chair, to see if he could break it and get free that way, but no dice; it was secured somehow.  
  
He could feel warmth on his face and his front, see just a bit of light around the edges of his blindfold. From that, he could guess that he was under some kind of lights; it was too warm (and too unlikely) to be sunlight.  
  
And from the occasional sounds he could make out in the otherwise-silent space, he guessed he wasn't alone. He'd called out once, only to receive an electrical shock from something else – not as bad as the taser, but painful enough. Cattle prod, maybe?  
  
Lestrade didn't know. He didn't want to know. He drifted, his muscles still spasming occasionally, his mind overloaded with pain and chemicals. Eventually, his thoughts cleared enough to recognize the sound of a quick intake of breath, and then hurrying footsteps and an urgent whisper.  
  
“Greg? Can you hear me?”  
  
Even drugged, half-stunned, and disoriented, Lestrade knew that voice. "John?" The word came out cracked and raspy, almost unintelligible.  
  
Gentle hands pulled the blindfold away. Lestrade winced and slammed his eyes shut against the blinding glare. A hand lightly touched his temple, then the back of his head, and John spoke again. “Fancy meeting you here. How badly are you hurt?”  
  
John sounded casual, almost flippant, which meant he was very worried indeed. Lestrade made himself open his eyes and squinted against the lights – two of them, unless he was seeing double. His eyes watered, making everything blurry, but there was John, looking worried and strange in the overwhelming light that stabbed like needles in his brain. Lestrade couldn't stop his head from reflexively jerking away from it. The room wavered, the blackness behind the light swimming strangely.  
  
No, not just swimming. _Moving._  
  
"John - "  
  
His warning came too late. There was a sharp noise, then a cracking, snapping sound. John convulsed and dropped to the ground, his body writhing as electrical current shot through him.  
  
"No!"  
  
Lestrade's shout was met by mocking laughter. A figure stepped into the circle of light, the taser still in its hand. He stepped over John's still-convulsing body with callous unconcern, almost as if John had ceased to matter, ceased to exist, once he was down. Lestrade looked up at the masked visage of his kidnapper.

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted July 26, 2012, and as a chapter of Camera Obscura. Broken out into its own fic so that it can be properly attributed to the appropriate collection.


End file.
